


Wild English Roses Adorn Her Parasol

by honeyedlion



Category: Emma - A Victorian Romance
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Rare Pairings, Romance, Slow Build, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedlion/pseuds/honeyedlion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A life needs to be worth living. Or, falling in love again isn't a crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild English Roses Adorn Her Parasol

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me so badly. It's huge, and no one's ever going to read it, haha.

                On the train ride, Emma thinks about William. She thinks about his smile, and the attentive light in his eyes. She thinks about the kindness of his hand on hers, and for a few brief moments, she thinks of his mouth, the sensation so new as to be unmemorable, the fine tremor that ran through them both.

                She presses her flushed skin to the glass, but pulls away quickly when the lady beside her looks at her curiously. Even here, someone is always watching.

:

                The town she left feels completely different, and exactly as she left it. The general store had been torn down, and rebuilt a street over. The roads have gained some paving, but the air smells the same. A mix of fresh salt and rotten brine. She had missed the smell of the sea, so sharp in the morning.

                She checks into a small boarding house, and inquires at the front desk about anyone needing a maid. The woman laughs a little. Emma thinks that may be the only answer she is going to get. Just as well. She has some money, a small savings from her Madam, put into an account for her with routine punctuality. She also had a small sum left to her in the will. Nothing grand, but enough to keep her.

                Her room is small, and dark, and the walls are thin. She can hear a dozen other girls, workers from the factories that have sprung up everywhere like weeds. They make noises like mice in the walls.

                She sits on the bed and brushes her hair. One, two, three, four,

:

                She falls asleep before she reaches a hundred.

:

                She wakes up before the sun, as she always has. She needs to get the kitchen fire restarted, get the paper, bring madam her-

                She lies back down, but slowly.

                She has nothing to do.

                The thought is enormous and terrifying.

:

                She eats breakfast an hour later, listening to the chatter of the girls around her. They are young, mostly simple daughters from the country, but a few have the sharp London accents she is used to from the markets. They eye her curiously, but she makes no conversation aside from what she must. She feels the loss of her love like a wound.

:

                But wasn't she losing him the whole time? She knew it could never happen, it would never work; his father would never accept her, nevernevernever...

                It stings, unhealed.

:

                As Emma steps from the boarding house, her hair up in neat pins, her hat on tightly, she tries imagining what it would be like if William were here with her. His arm under hers, the soft, deep sound of his voice. She imagines his firm step.

                The look in his eyes as she stepped onto the train.

                Defeat.

                She pushes him from her mind. She has no room for him in this new life she is trying to live. He is the only thing she has no room for.

:

                She stops by the general store, and makes a small purchase of thread as a means to inquire over work. The proprietress is a sweet woman, large and rounded, with small soft eyes. They are dark and liquid, and remind her a bit of Hakim.

                He was like something out of a fairytale. A prince, asking her hand in marriage. His eyes were deep, but strangely bright, and his hand feverishly warm on hers as he'd asked. No prince had ever stared so heatedly at a princess. Bewitched? By her? What a thought.

                Emma thinks of moonlight.

:

                She takes the shopkeeper's advice, and stops by a fabric shop, which in turn sends her to a small house, a ways outside of town. The road quickly turns from cobble, to grit, to soft loam, and the hard soles of her shoes bite into the ground with each step.

                The house itself is tiny for an estate and huge for a home. Emma is acquainted with the sizing in London, but this house was given room to sprawl. It is roughly twice the size of the Madam’s apartment, but has a much different feel.

                Ivy creeps over low stone fencing, winding rich and green around the rusted metal gate. The house itself is wood, once painted a deep navy, now fading and peeling. But the gardens are neat, and obviously cared for, everything clean and put away in its proper place. She opens the gate, which doesn't creak, but does sag into the dirt, and walks to the door, where her knock seems too loud for the quiet silence of this home.

                When the door opens, a young girl is behind it, maybe fifteen, with long golden hair and a serious demeanor. She is led inside, and fed thick bread with honey, before the madam of the house comes to greet her.

                She feels a bit like she's in a storybook now.

:

                The madam is old, and her husband works overseas. She and the girl are going to join him. She wants someone who can care for the house and the grounds in her year or two absence. Emma suspects she is not coming back.

               She has children in America, who may come and stay, but infrequently. She had wanted a couple, but Emma will do, she thinks. She seems capable. She had been delaying the trip for months waiting for someone to come for the job. She names a sum for food and pay that seems outlandishly large.

:

                Emma agrees and two weeks later, she is the lady of a house.

:

                Not her house, no, but in the morning she wakes and readies the fire, toasts bread, and drinks tea all in her nightgown, usually reading one of the dreadful romances the absent owner had left behind. In this job, she is not a maid, but a caretaker, a paid friend. She dresses in her brown dress, and airs the rooms, turns out the linen twice a week. She pulls weeds in the garden with gloved hands, and cooks the food it provides.

:

                She has nothing to do.

                But this time it feels smaller. She only has nothing to do, _today_.

:

                A month into her stay, she writes Al. She tells him simple things about her life, her job, her day. At the end, she gives her address, and asks him to pass it on. She doesn't say to whom.

:

                She assumes he'll know.

:

                William writes her a brief letter. It is full of moonlight and regret, and his large looping penmanship, and she wishes he hadn't. It's hard to grieve the loss of someone when they are still alive. When they still send you letters telling you of how they remember the racing pulse in your wrist the night they kissed you under the glass moon.

:

                Hakim writes her a letter. He does not speak of William, he barely speaks of himself. He speaks of the hot sun of India, and how it would feel on her face. He speaks of food she has never heard of, and describes them until she can feel it burning on her tongue. He speaks of the intricacies of his father’s court. He speaks of politics, and government. Things before, Emma would only hear talked about by the men on the corner. Rough spoken voices discussing wages, and unions, taxes and parliament. Hakim writes it like a story, of this advisor and that family feud. And at the end of the letter, he asks if he could visit.

:

                The old woman's garden, Emma's garden now, grows potatoes, and carrots, cabbage and celery, leeks and peas, and beans. It grows profusely although it is early spring, and Emma learns to sit on the back porch, barefoot. Her toes sink into the earth, and she eats raw snap peas, right off the vine.

:

                She writes William back, because how can she not. She does not know what to say. It is a short stunted thing, full of feelings she can't convey, and memories she can't put away. She tells him, spontaneously, of the story she had checked out from the library, but after she sends it, she regrets it. It was foolish. This is foolish, to keep clinging, when there is nothing left to cling to.

:

                She writes Hakim a letter, and tells him how the days seem long, but are truly short. She describes her garden in frivolous detail, and draws a tiny sketch of the house. She tells him of the people in town, and of the small family of birds that lives beside the porch. She tells him yes, he can visit, but could he bring a pepper plant? She wants to see if they'll grow here, in this wet soil.

:

                A month passes. 

:

                Hakim sends her a letter, this time about himself. He speaks of his father, and the distance in their relationship. Hakim is one son of many, and he will never be anything but a prince. His tone is bitter, but accepting. He speaks of growing up at school, of being alone because of his standing and his heritage. He tells her of the emptiness of his days. He says he will come for a visit in another month.

:

                Emma tells him of the people of the town, how they have changed, and how they haven't. She speaks in circles around her childhood. She talks about her old mistress, and her place in the house. Of her busy days, of struggling to read. She tells him of the strangeness of waking up for herself. Of the enormity of nothing that sometimes surrounds her. It is easier to say, in the anonymity of paper and pen.

:

                He sends her a packet of pepper seeds and a picture of him and William as young boys at school. Williams is smiling bright and wild, his hair a ruffled mess, but Hakim is small and dark, his eyes so still.

:

                When he arrives however, he arrives alone.

:

                She is sitting on the front porch, a novel in her lap, and tea on the table beside her, when he walks up. His steps are quiet on the grass. He stands by the gate until she can come to let him in. Emma feels unaccountably flustered. Her hair is coming loose in wisps around her neck, and the shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders is a threadbare thing.

                "Hakim" She murmurs. She feels silly and feminine.

                "Emma." He says, and her name is a whisper on the wind.

:

                She puts him in the parlour while she changes. She splashes cold water on her face, and wonders why she feels so nervous.

:

                She shows him the garden, and all it's wonderful, flowering glory. He is wearing a nice, white linen suit, but he sits down on the grass easily, rubbing a mint leaf absently between his fingers.

                "Do you like it?" She asks shyly, and he smiles at her, his eyes rich, like coffee.

                "It's beautiful."

:

                They eat dinner in the kitchen together, warm, freshly baked bread, and thick stew. He brought her packets of seasoning, and a roughly translated cookbook.

                She thumbs through the hand written pages carefully, already noting what she'll have to change, and what she'll need to buy.

                "Where did you get it?" She asks, and he smiles at her, and she realizes he has tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, just from smiling.

                "I had one of the cooks transcribe it. Do you like it?"

                "It's perfect." She says, and she means it.

:

                The next morning he comes again, bearing a small basket of seedlings, and clippings. They plant them together, his jacket shucked off, and tossed to the corner, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Later, after lunch, he smokes a pipe on the front porch and watches her write, in tiny, elegant handwriting, the names of the plants as he speaks and their care into her journal. She makes curry with the spices he brought for dinner, and they watch the sun go down.

                When the moon rises, high and clear over the porch, she can only think of William. Hakim puffs out a slow mouth of smoke, and looks over at her, warm brown eyes contemplative.

                "Do you still love him?" He asks, and his voice is soft, soft, as one might speak to a wild animal.

                She nods her head slowly, strangely afraid to look him in the eye.

                "Then I will come again tomorrow." He says, and walks down her little path, back to the village where she was born.

:

                The third day he comes with a manservant. She is neatly dressed, and when he steps inside it is only to fetch her wrap and her hat, and then they are off, her hand on his arm as they walk down her little path and into the village.

                He is interested in everything, and she does her best to entertain him, to keep up with him. His normally leisurely walk, is sometimes interrupted by a striding gait as he asks her, is this corner where her and Marcella used to trade marbles? He re-paints her childhood in bold colors, and she finds herself remembering more and more as she tells him, remembering through him, reliving her joy and sadness through his eyes.

                It is exhausting, but his hand is warm in hers, and she tells herself there is no reason not to enjoy this.

                When they stop for lunch at the only place resembling a cafe in town, he tells her of his own childhood. She laughs, a small bell, when he tells her of the tiger cub he was given to tame. He orders too much food, and smiles when she cannot eat anymore.

                After lunch he wants to buy things. He says he left his servants at the hotel, but that it's best he bring them something so they won't be jealous. He buys tiny knick-knacks, and worn books in leather bindings, a pair of large wading boots.

                "They like to be entertained, and to see new things." He says when she eyes him askance. "They have never seen fishing boots before. It will be new, and exciting."

                "I always wanted to ride on an elephant." She says quietly, wistfully and he laughs, and whirls her into the next shop. When they have exhausted the few shops in her small village, they walk to the only hotel in town, where he has rented the entire top floor for his caravan.

                She is nervous, but laughing. Her cheeks are pink, and her hair has come down in wisps again.

:

                His rooms are a glowing haze, perfumed smoke and gauzy fabrics drape from every angle. On the bed like an indecent painting, his servant girls lay indolently while awaiting his return. They are all dark eyed and red lipped, with heavy curves and more skin than Emma has seen in her life. She is almost mesmerized.

                They pull her into the next room while Hakim laughs, but when she steps out shyly, he is no longer laughing.

                She is garbed as they are, and her hair, all that glorious chestnut hair, runs like a river down her back, such a contrast to the milk white of her skin.

                He steps close and without her glasses she can't see much beyond him, her world narrowing to just this man. His fingers trail through the tips of her hair and it feels more intimate than any kiss.

                "Do you still love William?" He asks, and she can hardly look away from his eyes.

:

                But she does.

:

                She nods, and he pulls his hand away, slowly. But he cradles it as though he's been burned.

                "Then I will be here tomorrow."

:

                Tomorrow comes too swiftly, even though she barely sleeps.

:

                He comes at noon and brings a basket with him. She takes him behind the house, and down near the stream that runs along behind. He spreads out a checked quilt, and she unpacks the basket. His eyes are dark and heavy on her neat, flowing movements.

                He has brought thick slices of white bread, rich chunks of cheese, and fresh fruit almost out of season. Cold cuts of ham, and chicken. They eat with their fingers. He unpacks the wine, but finds one of the glasses smashed, so they share. Sipping delicately from one belled glass, passing it back and forth as they talk.

                "When I was younger, I hated the color of my eyes." She tells him pensively. He watches her calmly, reclining onto his elbows, his pipe smoking lightly in one hand. "I thought they were the color of mud. The same with my hair."

                "But your eyes are different." She's watching him now, as she speaks. "They are so much deeper."

                "You have caramel colored eyes." He tells her, the words spoken on a whuff of smoke. "Your eyes are quick and bright like a cat. Nothing like mud."

                "I can’t believe I’ve told someone such things." She says suddenly, aware of how disheveled she looks and that they are all alone.

                "I love hearing you speak." He says, still reclined, but his body has a wiry watchfulness, as though she is a rabbit about to bolt. "Your mind has the same light grace as your hands. Hearing you speak is like watching you work. It's beauty."

                In the silence of nothing to say, she looks away, watches the stream.

:

                He stands by her gate at the end of the night.

                "Do you love him?"

                "I...." She takes a breath, and then looks at him helplessly.

                "Then I will come again next month."

                She breathes a small sigh, as he turns and walks away smiling.

:

                Next month Al sends her a letter. He has fallen ill, and wants to see her. She writes to the owner of her house, who tells her that for the next six months, one of the American daughters will be there anyway. Emma takes her pay and her belongings and takes a train back to London.

:

                It is just as she left it.

:

                As she stands in the bustling train station waiting for her coach she composes letters to Hakim in her head. She tells him of the ride here, she describes meeting the American daughter. As the coach wobbles, and jounces its way down steady cobblestone, she describes the neighborhood that Al lives in. The drooping stone, the weathered wood. She imagines him in the coach with her. He'd point out the hands of the lady selling cabbage, how weathered and plump they were. She’d show him the pigeons lining the roof, and later show him how they could be called with bread.

                But he is not there. And getting out of the coach alone makes her feel cold.

:

                Al had taken a bad fall, and hurt his hip, but not badly. The doctor said he would make a full recovery, just needed rest, and nurse-maiding. She cooked and cleaned, and at night after he had fallen asleep, she wrote sheaves of letters to Hakim, describing not just London, but how it feels to be home, and how she misses her madam. She sends to him the clever, risqué jokes Al tells her late at night, when he's had too much wine, and hopes they make him laugh.

                He writes to her of his ailing father, and eldest brother, the first of seven who stands to inherit. He writes of the marketplace of his home, how he must dress in different clothes, so as to go unrecognized. He tells her about how he misses her garden, full of small green growing things. England is so damp.

:

                Emma is buying vegetables, missing her garden, when she sees him. William is walking toward her, alone. He looks exactly the same. She wasn't sure what she expected, and before she can stop herself, she has ducked behind a corner, her heart pounding in her chest as he passes her by, his blond hair in a neat array, his shoulders broad and familiar.

                She barely remembers paying, and when she gets back, she realizes she bought only onions, and has to go right back.

:

                Hakim writes to ask if he can visit, and she asks Al who agrees, albeit curiously. She comes back, after shopping a few days later, to find them drinking together in the living room, and when she enters, Hakim stands. He crosses the room and takes her hand warmly, and she hugs him, before she can really question. When she pulls back, he is smiling, and Al is looking at her with new, wondering eyes.

:

                Al heals quickly and only truly needed a bit of cooking and cleaning done for him. She helps him to the table in the morning, and he’ll spend the day playing poker with the men.

                In the afternoon, Hakim shows her the city.

                Emma was raised in London. She knows the best routes to the marketplace on a crowded morning, she knows where to get good fabric without getting swindled and where to step when it’s dark, and the bars sound too rowdy too be out alone near.

                She knows how the city smells when dawn is just breaking.

                Hakim shows her a whole new country.

                Like stepping through a doorway and into a fairytale.

:

                It starts small.

                He buys her a dress.

                A nice dress, nicer than anything she’s ever had. It is a deep, rich green, an evening dress, and with it are smartly soled leather boots, and delicate tooled brown kidskin gloves. When he hands her the box, she hands it back, but not before running a single finger longingly over the fabric.

                His eyes on her hand are warm.

                “I need a companion.” He tells her, and he lays his hand over hers.

                “I’m not-“

                “Don’t make me go alone.” His voice is light, almost teasing, but he is watching her carefully. Waiting for her to burn him again.

                Instead she nods, and his smile is the sun.

:

                She thinks she is the one burned this time.

:

                When he arrives to pick her up, coach waiting in front of David’s door, nice enough to make the neighborhood stare, she is already dressed. His eyes glow at the sight of her. She feels powerful, and beautiful, and terribly nervous. Her hair is wound in sinuous coils, and the gloves are heavy on her hand.

                The shiny new boots are slick on the coach step, and she grips his hand tightly, afraid she’ll fall.

:

                When they announce her entrance into the room, she is Miss Emma Brown, and Prince Hakim Atawari. Her arm is wound securely in his, and he is smiling at her pink cheeks. No one is staring at them. Even the people looking at them are looking at Hakim, not at her.

                He steps briskly into the room, and invisible as she is beside the eyes watching him, she has a brief flash of how hard won those easy steps must be. She thinks of the picture she keeps in her bedside table, his small serious frown, and dark eyes. His smile is a wandering thing, his soft manner making him seem at home, even in this atmosphere.

                It doesn’t change the fact that he is the only foreigner here.

                Well, and herself. Although she is from this country, she has only ever been on the other side of the door. Never has she worn a dress so fine, or been handed bubbling champagne in tall crystal flutes. Never has she been led onto the dance floor, his steps light and swift, her own feet following. He slows when he realizes she does not know the steps, and lets her move with him, teaching her as they dance.

                She missteps, one booted foot stepping on his, and he laughs. She is surprised (terrified, wondering) to find herself joining in.

                “You look beautiful.” He tells her, his hand properly on her side, exactly a foot between their bodies, as they whirl dizzyingly through the room. “Nothing looks better on you than laughter.”

                She can feel her face flushing, and she feels like the champagne she sipped. Like thin high bubbles suffuse the warm golden light of her being.

:

                “Emma!”

:

                The music does not screech to a halt. No one turns dramatically their way. But her heart stops beating at the sound of his voice.

                It feels like all the bubbles inside her just popped.

:

                “William.” Says Hakim, and she can read nothing in his voice, but everything in his eyes. Did she truly once think him inscrutable? She tries to remember the unknowing fear she held when he grasped her hand in the Madam’s parlour and can conjure none of it.

                William, stopping before them, his cheeks red, breath heaving from darting across the room is a million times more terrifying.

                She stays silent.

                In this situation, whose name does she speak?

:

                “Emma.” Says William, and her name sounds like a benediction on his lips. “How are you-“

                “I brought her.” Says Hakim. And this is worse than if she had chosen a name. William looks startled and wounded, Hakim’s face has shut down, a blank mask except for his eyes.

                “Al took a bad fall. I came back to London to care for him.”

                “You should have told me!” William says loudly, and takes her hand. Hakim’s arm still held under hers. Moments ago they were dancing.

                “Why?” She says softly, and pulls away from him. Her movements are slow. Though they appear unobserved, William’s volume is sure to have caused a stirring in the crowd.

                “Because-“ William stopped and her hand fell from his. “I wanted to see you. You never write me.”

                She feels Hakim stiffen beside her, and then his body goes loose, as though all the worry has drained from him. Her cheeks burn.

                “We already said our goodbyes.” And this time she allows their eyes to meet. His eyes are the green of her garden, bright buds on old English ivy. He looks so lost. She wants to take his hand, and lead him like a puppy

                She was not prepared for this. She should have been.

                “I will leave you to talk.” Hakim murmurs suddenly, and with a sharp bow takes his leave. Emma turns helplessly, watching the elegant line he makes, cutting through the dancing whirling figures. Wiliam’s hand is still clasping hers, and he feels like an anchor, a chain, a weight, sinking her into the ocean. She turns back to his sweet green eyes, and pulls away.

:

                Emma looks for him, afraid to ask, afraid someone will, what? Recognize her? Realize her unworthiness and throw her ruined into the mud. She feels like a mouse scampering through the long beautiful hallways.

                She finally finds him in a distant sitting room, all dark wood and tobacco smoke fills the air. He is sitting at a low table with other men, pipe in one hand, his jacket tossed easily onto the chair beside him. She approaches slowly. She doesn’t want to make a scene.

                “Hakim.” She says, and he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees her. She knows she must look a mess her hair falling around her ears, her cheeks red from hurrying. “I-“

                He stands.

                “I understand.” He says, his face a blank. “If William-“

                “I don’t love him!”

                She says it too loudly, and feels her cheeks flush. They’ve attracted the attention of half the room, but Emma became a shamed woman over William, and this-. She thinks this may be more important.

                Hakim is watching her with glowing eyes.

                “Do you-“He swallows.

                “Do you love me?”

                She is terrified. Her heart is in her throat. She can’t breathe. She is drowning.

                “I-“She swallows, and does not look at anything but his face. “I-“

                He takes two steps forward, and his mouth is on hers, and she hears someone gasp behind her. This is nothing like the pure, clean kiss she shared with William. She is not even thinking of moonlight. She is thinking of the sun, and she feels languid from the heat.

                He pulls back, and someone from the table behind him says “I say!”

                And suddenly they are laughing, she is holding herself up on his arms, and they are giggling as though they have gone mad. She is still giggling, as Hakim settles his bets at the card game, smiling as they walk out to the drive to fetch their carriage, and when they are alone driving home, her eyes are warm on his. Their hands have not separated since the party.

                “Come to India with me.” He says suddenly.

:

                She says yes.

:

                India’s sun is indeed hot on her face. She burns under the intensity, and stays veiled almost constantly. Even then she gets a small smattering of freckles running just across the bridge of her nose. When she looks into the mirror fresh from a bath, she thinks how young they make her look.

                Hakim tells her she is spotted like a leopard, and strokes a slow finger over the freckles, the touch making her feel more than a million kisses in the moonlight. At night, he’ll lay beside her, pipe curling lazy smoke into the air. He’ll say “Do you love me?”

                And she’ll smile.

                She already said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Spread your [petals](http://honeyedlion.tumblr.com/). Or submit a request.


End file.
